


A Lucky Shot

by Utu



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Death, M/M, One Shot, Original Fiction, Violence, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 11:54:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21299033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Utu/pseuds/Utu
Summary: It had been a lucky shot, because I wasn’t really even trying. But your paws slipped on the ice and you fell, and I took the shot, thinking I would miss. Your howl tinted by pain wasn’t the only one I heard, as you staggered up, blood splattering against the ground, freezing instantly.
Kudos: 1





	A Lucky Shot

**Author's Note:**

> If someone has read Aino Kallas' Sudenmorsian, then you know what has, partially, inspired me to write this. It's an amazing book, really.
> 
> I love werewolves, and this is my interpretation of them. A mix of Finnish/Estonian mythology, as well as English folk-lore.

Death was standing beside you, holding your shoulder with its bony fingers when I stepped inside the small kitchen, avoiding the bloody paw prints dotting the hardwood floor. The contrast between the white floors and the dark arterial blood turned my stomach. And you were naked on your knees, your hands pressed against your stomach, covering the small hole caused by the silver bullet I sank into you hours earlier. Upon hearing my footsteps, you lifted your head and locked your gaze with mine. Your eyes were glazed, their usually warm bluish hue now cold and dead.

The floodlights outside made everything look cold and clinical inside, as the beams of bright lights poured in through the window. The dark countertops, the appliances, the herbs and plants growing wild in their pots. Wolf’s bane, nootka lupine, fireweed, henbane and jimson weed hung on strings over your sink to dry. Bile rose into my mouth as my lungs were filled with the heavy, humid air which smelled like iron and salt, melting snow and a cacophony of flowers.

Blood trickled between your fingers, flowing down to your thighs, pooling on the floor. The bullet was lodged somewhere inside of your abdomen, burning and killing off the tissue. Both of us knew, that if left alone, your body’s ability to heal itself would come to an end, as silver is poison to your kind.

It had been a lucky shot, because I wasn’t really even trying. But your paws slipped on the ice and you fell, and I took the shot, thinking I would miss. Your howl tinted by pain wasn’t the only one I heard, as you staggered up, blood splattering against the ground, freezing instantly. Your humid and hot breath rose to the sky, when you bolted towards the tree line, disappearing amidst the pine trees hanging heavy with thick snow.

And the blood splatters were like beacons in the white forest, leading me to you. Leading me to a place I once called home.

I holstered my pistol, stepping over a small puddle of blood, and I unsheathed my knife, made of silver and steel. Your eyes were begging me, but your parted lips said nothing. The snow was starting to melt on my jacket, soaking into the wool as I knelt and reached my hand to brush it over your cheek. Like always, you pressed against it, looking for comfort, looking for love. I rested my bloody thumb over your lips, and your soft tongue licked the partially clotted blood off. One last gesture of pure, unfiltered love.

From your eyes I could read the betrayal, the pain, the love, the longing. I was aching to hold you again. Aching to make love to you again. My whole body ached for you; my stomach, my liver, my kidneys, the blood in my veins ached for you. I threaded my hand amidst your hair, rubbing your scalp with my fingertips. The blood started to soak into your short hair, damp from sweat. Even then you leaned against my hand, trusting as always, your eyes fixed with mine.

Death was a certainty and you knew it. You could probably hear its call and feel its pull. But you weren’t afraid. You never were. You were always so sure of everything.

I placed my knife on the floor. It didn’t matter. I could have given it to you, and you would have only held it, as you were unable to harm me, even if it was a matter of life and death. I cupped your face, and I kissed you, my mouth filling with the unforgiving taste of blood. You kissed me back lethargically, hanging onto the last string keeping you attached to this life.

You wouldn’t probably believe it, but I would have given anything to be in your place. I wanted to be the one bleeding out, hurting and dying.

When I had to break the kiss, I held your face in my hands, etching your epicene features into my memory. For the last time I let my hand travel down your chest, brushing over the numerous scars — bite marks, scratches, imprints of knives — and all I could think of was our last night together. All I could think of was the steady hum of your breathing in the darkness, when I made love to you for the last time.

We knew the night before had been our last. The knowledge didn’t change a thing. You were still as eager as you were all those years ago. I cannot say if someone molded your body to fit so well with mine, and maybe it doesn’t matter. I kept going until I was exhausted, my muscles and my bones aching in ways I didn’t know was possible. And you were unfazed as always, your heartbeat a steady, pulsating rhythm I could feel against my palm. You took in every last drop of my life I could give, until there was nothing to give. You drew blood with your teeth, and I watched as it fell against your neck, soaking into the soft sheets under your body.

Too often I had tried to tame you. To shackle you in place. But you fought back, your teeth bared and your eyes full of contempt. Again and again, you told me that there’s a part of you that I’ll never see. That I shouldn’t try to see it, to understand it.

I could still remember how your spine had sounded like when it bent and crackled like lightning. The last snaps of your joints as they found their places before you ran, the first bullet whizzing past your ear as I fired my gun. Your warmth and taste still lingering, my lungs still full of your scent and my ears full of your voice.

Your scales had tipped a long time ago, heavy with sin and death, making everything in your life slightly crooked. The blood running in your veins and staining the floor was both a curse and a gift. You called it a gift when we first met, and then proceeded to playfully jump off the roof of your cabin into the soft rolling heaps of snow, with the pelt hung over your shoulders. You waded through the snow, your paws spread like snowshoes, your thick fur keeping the cold at bay and you yelped and howled as you sprinted through the forest. And I was painfully jealous of your freedom as your howls bounced from the dead pine trees. That jealousy was wiped away by your soft tongue brushing against my palm, by the soft whine escaping from your throat.

I felt sick to my stomach when I realized I was lusting you even when you were dying. And I know what you would’ve said. You would have said, that it’s normal, that it’s only natural. After all, you were always in tune with your feelings, your desires and your needs. Obnoxious youth combined with power far bigger than you, made you nearly unstoppable. You and the world were always on the same wavelength. When the world hurt, you hurt. When the world bled, you bled the same.

I took my knife and I placed the tip against your cold skin, just underneath your ribs. My free hand I brought to your nape, holding you still. The wolves were closing in, I could hear the snow crunching under their paws and their low growls. Your family. Your flesh and blood. I let you fumble for the bloodied wolf pelt laying on the floor. You balled the fur tightly into your fist and you nodded, maybe to say that you forgive me.

You didn’t even flinch when the knife popped through your skin. You met my unsure gaze with your own unwavering one as I pushed the knife deeper. Another pop, this time muffled, as the blade split your heart, and a few seconds of haphazard beating of your heart vibrating the handle. Then stillness. Nothingness. You fell limp.

I pulled out my knife, and watched you flop against the floor, the last remnants of your life slowly draining out of you. I tugged the pelt free from your hand as I wiped the blade clean against the rough fabric of my trousers. As I got to my feet I stared out of the small kitchen window, and I could see the two burning coals in the night, piercing straight through me. Your brother. Just far enough that the lights didn’t reach him. But I could imagine how his gray, black-tinted fur looked like in the moonlight.

There was a time when I wanted to become like you. A time when I wanted your freedom. But you refused. Then you called it a curse, and proceeded to bite down to the still warm liver of your sacrifice. I watched you devour the soft, slippery organ, feeling nauseous. Not because of your actions, but because of how much I wanted you in that moment, when your hands were stained with blood, and your breath smelled like raw meat. I wanted to slam you against the kitchen isle, like pain would somehow rid you of the curse, and I wanted to feel the feverishly hot blood running underneath your skin.

I brought the pelt against my face, inhaling the smell of juniper berries and pine needles. If only I could’ve thrown it over my shoulders and joined your family.

A lucky shot. That’s all it took to cut you from my life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and if you have time, leave a Kudos and/or a comment!  
xoxo <3


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